Into the Flame (31 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

BOOK: Into the Flame
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Who wanted a guy who had sold his own family to a pack of vicious murderers?
The light from the bathroom woke Firebird. She rose onto her elbow and shielded her eyes.
Douglas
was a looming silhouette in the doorway. ‘‘I’m sorry to have to wake you.’’
It was dark outside. The clock said four a.m., but he was dressed in his state police uniform.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’
‘‘My boss rang me.’’ He paced toward her. ‘‘Some-one called in an accident on the highway. I may be a while, so I need to bring you up-to-date.’’
She’d learned to wake up when she needed to; having a baby had taught her that. Now she roused herself completely, stuck a pillow behind her back, and
focused
.
‘‘The storm knocked out the electricity,’’ he said.
She heard the wind thrashing through the trees.
He continued, ‘‘I have a backup generator. The phones are out. I can’t do anything about that. But the storm’s passing, and because I’m a state cop, the phone company always repairs my lines first, so that should be back up soon.’’
‘‘If you’ve got no phones, how did you find out about the accident?’’
‘‘I keep a cell phone backup. In my line of work, I can’t be caught without one.’’ He pulled it from his shirt pocket and stared at it indecisively. ‘‘I should leave it with you.’’
‘‘No. You need it worse than I do. But I’ll tell you what.’’ She took it from him and programmed in the Wilder number. ‘‘If you get in any kind of trouble, you can call home and someone will come to rescue you. I programmed them in as autodial number four, for four brothers.’’ She handed it back with a smile.
He did
not
smile back. ‘‘Thank you. Good idea. I hope I’m never in that kind of trouble.’’
‘‘Me, too, but that’s what families are for.’’ He didn’t yet know that. It would probably take years before he realized how completely he could depend on his brothers, his father and mother . . . and her. But he would learn. She would see to it.
‘‘I went out and scouted around,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t smell Varinskis, but in normal mode, the house security system will alert me to any invaders, and in high alert, this room acts as a safe room, and the system will repel invaders. I’ll set it for that. You’ll be safe while you sleep, but if I’m not back before you get up and want to eat, you
have
to reset the code.’’ He placed a piece of paper with scrawled numbers on the bedside table. ‘‘Don’t forget.’’
‘‘I won’t.’’
He placed a Glock beside the paper. ‘‘You know how to use this.’’
She picked it up, checked the safety, hefted it up and down to get the feel of that individual piece. ‘‘I can outshoot my brothers.’’
‘‘I never doubted it.’’
Douglas
smiled.
Well, not smiled. But he looked pleased. Well, not pleased . . . but she thought she was beginning to read him better, and
that
pleased
her
.
‘‘The pistol is loaded,’’ he said. ‘‘If you go out for any reason—’’
‘‘I’ll take it.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t leave if I thought there were danger.’’
‘‘I know.’’
He reached out, and his fingers hovered an inch from her cheek. ‘‘Be careful. Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll . . . then you can give me to your mother.’’
‘‘
Your
mother.’’
His hand fell away. ‘‘My mother.’’
As he turned away, she caught his cuff. ‘‘I didn’t exactly tell you everything. Not because I was deliberately leaving it out, but because we had so many other things to, um, cover . . .’’
He stood as still as a cougar anticipating attack. ‘‘What did you leave out?’’
There was no way to put this tactfully. ‘‘We believe that sooner or later—probably sooner—the Varinskis plan to attack my family and wipe them out.’’
‘‘Then I guess I’d better finish my business tonight so I can help with the fight.’’ He sounded so prosaic, as if the family’s battle were his, no question. Then he kissed her.
He tasted her, he breathed with her, and when he finished, he held her close and inhaled the scent of her hair. It was as if he were saying good-bye . . . forever.
He placed her on the pillows and walked to the door; then, as if he had changed his mind, he walked back. ‘‘Tell me—why do the Varinskis want the icon?’’
The blood drained from her face. ‘‘What . . . icon?’’
‘‘They’re offering a reward for a Russian icon. I take it by your expression that you know about it.’’
This the Wilders hadn’t anticipated—that the Varinskis would openly hunt for the icon. Didn’t they realize that once they indicated interest, every scoundrel in the world would be buying up icons by the dozens, and their chances of finding the one right icon would be diminished?
Of course, perhaps they thought the Wilders’ chance of finding them would be diminished, too.
But so far, the discovery of each icon had been miraculous in its own way. She had to have faith that the miracles wouldn’t fail them now.
Yet how to efficiently explain the situation to
Douglas
? ‘‘There are four icons. We have possession of three. When we find the fourth one, when we put them together, we will break the pact with the devil.’’
‘‘So the icon is very valuable.’’
‘‘It is beyond value. The Varinskis can’t allow us to get it, or they’re nothing. Listen, Douglas.’’ She took his hand. ‘‘My mother had a vision, and in her vision, each of the four Wilder sons will find an icon. The Varinskis don’t realize that you’re the fourth son, but . . . be careful out there.’’
‘‘I always am.’’ This time, as she searched his face, she thought he looked troubled. But he leaned down, kissed her with warm lips and cool intention, and she responded.
Then he was gone.
She had misjudged him. He was a good guy. Such a good guy. She’d done the right thing in coming here to get him.
She slid back under the covers and tried to go back to sleep, but she was wide-awake and worried.
The Varinskis were seeking the fourth icon. Offering a reward. Did the Wilder family know?
Firebird had listened to the message from Ann on her cell phone, but she hadn’t talked to her mother since she’d left three days ago. She didn’t know if they’d tried to call her—her phone was ruined and at the bottom of the ocean.
But surely they’d replied to her e-mail.
She got up, pulled a blanket around her shoulders, and used the code to reset the security system.
Then she headed into the corridor and
Douglas
’s office.
The door was locked.
She stared incredulously at the handle, then tried it again.
Definitely locked.
Her face flushed with hot embarrassment.
He knew she’d gone into his office and used his computer, of course. With a security system like his, he would know every room she’d visited, every faucet she’d turned.
She thumped the door with the flat of her hand.
He didn’t trust her?
No. Apparently he didn’t.
She had a choking feeling in the back of her throat, a feeling made up of mortification and betrayal.
But he hadn’t betrayed her, not really. He just . . . didn’t have the same faith in her that she had in him.
Like a bird, a little doubt peeped in her ear: What did he have to hide?
But she ignored that misgiving.
She still needed to communicate with her family.
Okay. No e-mail. The house telephone was out. But
Douglas
had a new BMW in the garage. He kept at least one extra cell phone. Was another out there?
Grabbing her bag, she headed into the bathroom. When she came out, she wore blue jeans and an earthy brown, close-fitting T-shirt. She had a knife strapped to her wrist and a Luxeon LED five-inch defensive aluminum flashlight in her pocket. She sat down in a chair and laced up her boots. She tucked the pistol in her belt and went looking for a coat to wear—hers had disappeared somewhere in the ocean.
She found a brown leather jacket in the closet, one that must fit
Douglas
like a glove. The leather was supple, yet strong; the zipper slid up as if it were on ball bearings. She checked the brand name; this thing must have cost a fortune.
And once again the doubt peeped in her ear.
Where did
Douglas
get the money for this jacket? To remodel this house? For a BMW?
He’d said gambling, but if that were the truth, why had he locked his office?
She found the keys for the BMW right away; they hung on a hook inside the pantry, where
Douglas
could grab them on the way out.
She set the alarm, turned off the lights, pulled her pistol, and stepped out the back door.
And listened.
The clouds hid the moon’s half-light. The night was pitch dark, without a sign of the impending dawn. The wind blew, rattling the loose boards on the porch, vibrating the metal gutters above. The waves rolled into shore.
But she heard no stealthy movement, sensed no predators in wait.
She moved cautiously down the porch and around the house, pausing and listening, but she grew more confident with each step.
If her father was right—and he always was—the Varinskis believed that when she’d gone in the ocean, they’d successfully completed their mission. If they didn’t believe that, they would have attacked at Mrs. Burchett’s, or here at the house. She was convinced she was alone and safe.
But she didn’t put the pistol down.
Douglas
’s BMW X5 was parked in the gravel parking space.
Her car was gone. Had
Douglas
put it in the garage? She didn’t take the time to find out. Her mortification at
Douglas
’s distrust had changed to uneasiness.
Something was not right.
She unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the door behind her, and placed the pistol in the seat beside her. She stuck the keys in the ignition, in case she had to drive; then, with her flashlight, she went through the console between the seats and the glove compartment. She explored the door pockets, front and back. She felt around under the seats and above the windshield.
No cell phone.
But this car had knobs everywhere. There were knobs on the ceiling, controls for the sunroof, and knobs between the seats on the console. There were knobs on the steering column, on the dash.
Douglas
’s BMW was the polar opposite of her Mercury Milan; it had everything—Night Vision, twenty-way seat adjustment, a lane-departure warning feature. Somewhere there had to be some kind of communication device, or at least real-person assistance.
She poked and prodded, found the park-distance sensors, the heads-up display. . . . Somehow, she stumbled into the history function for the navigation system. She tried to move on to the next utility, and instead moved one level deeper, and brought up the list of everywhere he’d driven his too-expensive car.
She didn’t mean to pry.
But two words caught her eye.
Blythe
,
Washington
.
The last time he’d driven this car, he’d driven to her own small town in the
Cascade Mountains
.
Her mouth was dry, her eyes strained as she examined his route. . . . He had started in
Seattle
, at the
Swedish
Hospital
, had driven almost to her doorstep, and he’d done it on the same night she returned from
Seattle
with the proof that she was not the Wilders’ daughter.

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